A Day in the Life of Maria Hill
by sass-mistress-lucifer
Summary: Deputy Director Maria Hill single-handedly runs S.H.I.E.L.D. That's a fact, not an opinion, and everyone knows it. As if Fury does much apart from stomp about with dramatic one-liners. She handles more deadly secrets everyday than most people could deal with in a lifetime. But everyone, even ice-cold, ex-assassins have a breaking point. And this has been building for a long time...


_**Hey all! So this is my first reasonable length fic that I've actually finished and that I don't want to throw off the heli-carrier or feed to the Hulk. It's pretty much unBeta-d, so there is practically a guarantee of there being mistakes in here, but whatever. I just love Maria Hill such damn much, and I think her role in actually running S.H.I.E.L.D is very unappreciated. Like, can you see Fury sitting down and dealing with a mountain of mistake ridden, poorly written paperwork without blowing his stack? Didn't think so. But everyone, even the Ice Queen has the right to blow up sometimes, and you know how it is with volcanoes. The longer the build up, the more spectacular the explosion. And Hill has been building up to this for a long time.**_

_**This is my first decent attempt at trying to write first person present tense, so please be nice! Be warned, there is also a tense change quite early on so don't get too confused!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Clintasha would be canon and there would be a lot more angsting and talks about how everyone had a shit father!**_

_**Warnings: Quite a lot of swearing, weird ass agent-i-ness, French.**_

A day in the life of Maria Hill.

I am _not_ having a good day. Yesterday wasn't a good day either. The day before that was world-endingly crap. And the day before that was even worse. You don't even want to know about what happened last week, believe me. And last month? Well, that's classified.

I'm a woman that prides myself on being organised. Without me chasing down, filing and completing veritable mountains of paperwork I'm convinced this organisation would fall down within a matter of hours. S.H.I.E.L.D's agents might save the world from villains but I save S.H.I.E.L.D from collapse-by-paperwork on an hourly basis. I like lists, I really do. Long, detailed lists that dive into every relevant facet of information whilst leaving out the waffle. But today, my list of crap occurrences is spiralling rapidly out of control.

First things first, I was woken up this morning at 3am to avert a nuclear crisis, because someone, somewhere had allowed terrorists to get hold of some nuclear missiles and point them at both Russia and America. It had been dangerously close to the Cold War getting hot, with the Russians pointing fingers at America and the Yanks yelling back, but even after I sent out a squad to take out the missiles, I had to talk to both sides for two hours just to get them to put the guns away. Testosterone fuelled morons. And to top that lovely early morning mayhem off, the CIA took all the credit. So yes, my desk may or may not have a new bullet hole in it.

Then, 5:30am rolled around. The canteen had run out of coffee, though god knows why because S.H.I.E.L.D can't function without the stuff, and I didn't even have time to dash out to the nearest Starbucks because Fury called, and told me I now had a meeting with the Council at 5:45am. Great. Just because Fury doesn't have a democratic bone in his body, he can't talk with the Council without blowing up, swearing at them and throwing around a few choice insults, before storming out and 99% of the time doing exactly the opposite of what the Council has just ordered him to do. Surprisingly enough, the Council responds better when I wheedle and persuade and cajole them around into our point of view, which is why I always get landed with the Council meetings. Better than the Director I may be, but not even I can persuade them that Agent Clint Barton, otherwise known as Hawkeye, is any good at anything. Every successful mission he completes is _apparently_ down to luck or, in most cases, Agent Romanoff, because the Council can't see past their blind hatred of the archer to what an excellent agent he is. I spent nearly an hour this morning stopping them reassigning Hawkeye to permanent desk duty, not least because him working under me would drive us both utterly insane. And besides, I might not like the infuriating assassin, but he's damn good at his job.

6:45 and I eventually finished up with the Council. I might've looked fine on the outside but somewhere around 6 o' clock my brain had curled up and died without its regular shot of caffeine. It felt like needles were spiking behind my eyes, my hair needed a wash, I couldn't even walk in a straight line and I'm pretty sure my underwear was on back to front. But the job marches on and the second I got out of the Council Chambers I got landed with a whole new load of missions that needed agents assigned to them. Fun times. I worked hectically at that for a long, long time, skim reading each document before pulling up a list of suitable agents and then proceeding to play a jigsaw of who's-available-and-who's-needed-elsewhere-and-who's-injured-and-who's-out-on-mission etc. It's a giant brain ache, so you can see why I snap people's heads off when they complain about their mission assignments. Somewhere in the middle of this Coulson, bless his little cotton socks, brought me a coffee, but I didn't have time to savour the thing or utter anything more than a 'Thank you' as I drained it in one hasty gulp and went back to work. At least my brain started to function at that point.

It was 8:15 before I finally dealt with the last assignment for the day. It would start again tomorrow though, which was a depressing thought. Oh well, no time to be depressed, I had sorting to do. Mission transcripts from Languages and mission briefings from Intelligence and mission statements from the agents themselves had to be matched up, proof read, queried and filed under the time, date, place, agent and handler. Make no mistake, I do have two assistants for some of this, but I have to do anything over Level 5 because they don't have the Clearance Level to read it. Clearance Level 9 does have its perks but being the only one allowed to do certain paperwork (of which there is a lot) is not one of them.

9:30 came and went and it was a whole hour after that when I finally dealt with the rest of the paperwork that had accumulated just last night. 10:30am was not a good time to have been awake for 6 and a half hours already on nothing but caffeine and a few mints I found in my fourth favourite file, but unfortunately I had a meeting with the Avengers at 4pm (about the time Stark hauls his ass out of bed) and if I wanted to make it and not have to stay up all night tonight doing catch up work I did not have time to eat.

Now it was time to track down all of the paperwork that had not been handed in on time. Most agents definitely do not have the guts to take me on over paperwork, so I get most of it handed in on time, but there are a few notable exceptions, the worst of which is Clint Barton himself. Why Romanoff can manage it but he can't I don't know, but one of the things I _do_ regret is that I can't punish Hawkeye with desk duty because really that would just be punishing myself. He knows he's too valuable in the field anyway, so he thinks he has nothing to fear from me. He should really re-evaluate that most unfortunate misconception of his.

I had a splendid time tracking him down through the vents, and when I found him I hauled him down and had a good old scream at him. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Where is your paperwork Agent Barton? It was due last night."

Him, grinning: "Sorry but-"

Me, slowly losing my temper: "No excuses. Where. Is. It."

Him, smiling wider: "It's on Coulson's desk. I dealt with it, just like instructed."

Me, forcibly staying calm: "Shooting three arrows through the stack of paperwork is NOT dealing with it Agent Barton."

Him: "That's not what I'm usually told when I complete my missions." He grinned an absolutely shit eating grin.

I'm slightly ashamed in hindsight to say I slapped him at that point, right across the face. Really though, you can't blame me, I've been chasing him up for nearly a week.

Him, shocked: "Hey! I call abuse!"

Me, hissing furiously: "You _will_ do that paperwork and you _will_ hand it in and you _will_ not mess with me today and you _will_ not be a pain in the Avengers meeting later or so help me god…do I make myself clear?"

Him, even more shocked, because I rarely lose my temper: "Yes ma'am."

Me: "Good." Then I stalked away, feeling slightly better because of the red mark already blooming on his cheek.

By then it was 11:15am, and I was beginning to suffer from crippling stomach cramps. Assuming it was from hunger I stole a muffin and a coffee straight out of a young agent's hands, but their indignant shout of 'Hey!' was cut short when I gave them the patented don't-piss-with-me-I'm-Deputy-Director-Maria-goddam-Hill-I-will-eat-your-complaint-for-breakfast-after-I-finish-with-you glare. And yes, I can convey all that with a look, it's a precise art. But the food didn't help and, being a woman, I knew exactly what was wrong. Damn you Mother Nature, I do not have time to deal with your shit! Still, I had to dash off back to my quarters to sort myself out (my underwear was on back to front just in case you were wondering…which you had better not have been), and I guzzled a few painkillers, pocketed a few sashays of instant coffee, and was off again.

At 12:30 I got a call from Spiderman, otherwise known as the SpiderIdiot. Peter Parker might just be a kid but I wasn't feeling too friendly on the day when he shot webs all over the heli-carrier on a dare from Stark, so suffice to say he always hands any paperwork due to me in on time. Now who says terrorising junior agents, even when they posses meta-human abilities, isn't worth it? Anyway, he called specifically requesting my help with the interrogation of one of our more regular villains, and Parker's own personal nemesis, Deadpool. A quick run through of the general conversation, which was repeated quite a few times, actually it's the same conversation we have every time the indestructible, regenerating, flirtatious assassin is incarcerated in his own special cell on Detention Level 3, went like this:

Me, playing Bad Cop (which really wasn't hard considering my mood): "Tell me what you were up to in Sydney, right now."

Deadpool, grinning madly: "Nuh-uh!"

Parker, a little more calmly: "C'mon Wade, you aren't helping yourself. Just tell us, okay? Seriously, I wouldn't mess with Hill if I were you."

Deadpool, smirking: "Well, since you asked so nicely…"

Me, growling: "Now Wilson. I'm a busy woman."

Deadpool, pretending to be innocent: "Busy doing what?"

Me: "Don't try and change the subject, I'm not in the mood for fun and games."

Deadpool, snorting: "Well I am! What about a jigsaw? Oh, what about charades? Or Call of Duty! I love blowing stuff up."

Parker, visibly holding in his temper: "Sydney Wilson. Tell me what you were doing and I'll bring you a deck of cards, and you can play solitaire."

Deadpool, sarcastically: "Oh yay solitaire! Okay, so…" and then he'd come out with some non-sensical story which we all knew was complete rubbish, especially him because he just enjoys winding us up. Then we would have to start the conversation all over again, with only a few small variations. Eventually I left, having better things to do, even though I knew for a fact that that was exactly what Deadpool wanted and he would escape within the day. Look, as long as he doesn't blow up the entire base or kill anyone when he escapes, which he _usually_ doesn't, I really don't care right now. I might care tomorrow, but that's another day. We can just recapture him, but right now, I've got bigger fish to fry.

At 2:30pm I had to attend a meeting as S.H.I.E.L.D's representative with S.H.A.P.E, the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, basically our European sister group, over what to do about Latveria, the small European country ruled by the dictator and supervillain Victor Von Doom. Dr Doom had been deposed for the nth time and was currently in our custody in the Vault, but we had to decide what to do with the country itself (oh joy, more paperwork). Eventually we decided to place it under S.H.A.P.E's control for now, because whenever we try to install a democracy Dr Doom eventually comes back and kills all of the democrats, and that's a headache we can all do without.

That lead me to 4:05pm, and even though I was technically late for my meeting with the Avengers, I knew I would be one of the first people there.

I arrive, look around the empty conference room, and sigh. I can practically see the tumbleweeds. I sit down and open up some files on my tablet. Might as well check on some on-going long term missions whilst I have a couple of minutes, I know they won't be arriving anytime soon.

Natasha comes in first, dragging a grumpy looking Clint by the hand. They had obviously been training, as they both had ruffled up hair, Natasha was walking with a slight limp and Clint had a cut above his eyebrow to go with the bruise across his cheekbone. I'd probably feel bad but I can't get past the crushing apathy created by no sleep, no food and Mother Nature. Natasha takes one look at me and sends Clint to go and sit on the other side of the room, for which I am eternally grateful. Clint looks at me, smiles apologetically, and immediately plops down at the opposite end of the large conference room, pulling his favourite knife from his pocket and proceeding to sharpen it. Natasha nimbly takes my tablet off me, closes the work documents and opens up Angry Birds, before handing it back. I numbly stare at the screen for a second, but after a pointed look from Natasha I get the message. No more work for me apparently. Still, I refuse to let Stark catch me playing one of his stupid games (yes, Stark owns Angry Birds, he bought it when he got addicted so he could make more levels), so with a sigh I turn off my tablet, and silently hand it to the red head. Natasha gives me an approving look and takes the seat next to me.

"You okay?" she asks, sounding mildly concerned. I can see why, I don't sit around like a lost puppy even on a bad day, so it's pretty obvious something is wrong.

"I'm contemplating mass homicide." I say flatly.

"So, normal then." she smirks slightly.

"Worse."

Natasha almost winces. "Oh." Then: "Do I want to know?"

"I've got every single problem except my own serious physical injury on my plate right now." I sigh, then turn to her, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of my lips. "And get this, Barton's not even a large part of them." We share a knowing look.

"I'm not that bad." huffs Barton, who had quite obviously been listening to our conversation.

I fix him with a steely glare, which is a mild glare for me but right now I can't work up the mental will power to start a fight with Hawkeye. "Today, you shot arrows through your paperwork instead of completing it. Yesterday, you set off hundreds of fireworks in the canteen, apparently in protest of doing your paperwork, and the day before you split water all over all of Coulson's desk, which just happened to ruin all of his paperwork for that entire day."

His blue eyes glitter with mirth. "I just really don't like paperwork."

Natasha and I share a long suffering look, but before we get any further Steve comes in, looking seriously apologetic. "Very sorry I'm late ladies, Clint, but some of the junior agents noticed me and started begging for autographs. I couldn't get away until now."

I loom at Natasha and she grudgingly hands over my tablet. I deftly open a few files. "Voice note to all S.H.I.E.L.D agents under Level 5 clearance: Please refrain from stalking and/or bothering any member of the Avengers or senior staff, or you will have me to deal with. Signed, the Deputy Director." I close my tablet cover with a snap and hand it back to Natasha.

Steve blushes slightly and begins to protest that I needn't have bothered on his behalf, but I wave him away. Poor thing, so chivalrous. In this day and age he'll end up with an aneurism with the way women are treated. "Its fine Steve, hopefully it will shorten the time we have to wait for Stark and his fans in the SciTech and Intelligence branches. If his head swells anymore he won't be able to get through the door."

Steve smiles politely and scoots down the table to sit next to Clint, drawing the archer into a friendly conversation about current military formations. Natasha smiles at them fondly before her expression smoothes back into her trademark emotionless mask. Before my eyes glaze over, I grab a sachet of coffee from my pocket and rip it open, pouring the granules onto my tongue. Natasha watches me, raising a single eyebrow gracefully as I swallow and my pupils dilate when the caffeine hits. "That bad huh?"

I sigh. "Worse. I think this might have been the second worst month of working for S.H.I.E.L.D in the history of ever."

"Only second?" she asks, sounding half as if she doesn't want to know the answer.

"Discovering that we aren't the only people out there, as well as the fact that there are 8 other realms oh, and a superhuman Agsardian is duking it out with a metal giant in the middle of a small town in New Mexico? It creates a lot of paperwork, not to mention diplomatic entanglements."

Natasha nods in agreement, just as Bruce burst into the room, papers bursting from his arms. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry," the actual personification of a mad scientist mutters, "I lost track of time and I forgot the password for getting out of my lab again, so I had to bang on the glass, but of course its sound proof, so no-one could hear me, so…"

"Bruce, its fine. Stark is still not here, as always, and neither is Thor. Your only, oh…15 minutes late, that's not late enough for me to kill you. Just about."

Bruce looks at me as if to try and ascertain whether I'm serious or not, but he obviously can't decide as he scuttles off to sit next to the other men with his tail between his legs. He starts to flick through his huge haphazard pile of papers, and bringing out a pen begins to scribble notes in a seemingly random order all over the place.

I turn to Natasha. "Have you seen Fury today?"

"Yes, actually, I think he's hiding in his office for some reason. Why?"

I smile grimly. "He handed off the 3am nuclear crisis and the Council meeting to me this morning."

Natasha sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Oh he's so dead."

"Will you help me kill him?" I ask, deadly serious.

The Black Widow looks at me for a second. "I'll hold him down and confiscate his weapons while you kill him if you want." she says after a moment of consideration.

My answer is cut short when Thor bangs the door to the conference room open, nearly knocking it off its hinges. "Apologies Midguardian friends!" he booms, "But I could not fathom these tiny little timepieces you give me." He holds up a shattered watch. "Everything on Midguard is so small and breakable." he rumbles, looking a little confused, "But I will try in future to use these objects and not to break them instead!" Thor stands tall and proud as if issuing an oath to protect all watches (which in his mind he probably is), instead of apologising for breaking an inanimate object. Poor guy, he's like a child trapped in a giant's body, clumsy, eager to please and everyone is torn between 'aw-ing' and face-palming at his behaviour.

I gesture at Natasha and she hands me my tablet. "Voice note to Tech: Would someone please buy Thor a digital clock that doesn't break when he picks it up. Thank you. Signed, the Deputy Director." Thor gives me a hasty nod of thanks and bounds over to enthusiastically join in on Steve and Clint's conversation on military formations, loudly talking about Asgardian battle formations both past and present. The men seem interested though, so Natasha and I leave them to it.

"So you hit Clint this morning. Not that I don't do it all the time, but you're usually more restrained and he doesn't bruise easily, so it must have been pretty hard. Should I ask why?" Natasha asked.

"No, you probably shouldn't." She gives me a look. "Fine. I was in a bad mood and I've been chasing your insufferable partner for a week for that paperwork. I know he doesn't like it but really, he was lucky I only slapped him. Firing arrows through it, honest to god. If I had had my swords on me right then he would probably be missing something important right now."

"How important?"

"Very important."

Across the room, Clint winces. Score.

I feel my eyes starting to close, so I grab another sachet of coffee and pour it down my throat, earning a few strange looks from the Avengers who don't usually don't see anything but me being perfectly composed. Ah, they can suck it, I'm not in the mood to radiate being a deadly S.H.I.E.L.D agent right now. I check my watch, and it reads 4:30. I take a deep breath. My biggest challenge is coming right about…now.

Stark strides confidently into the room, his hair perfectly spiked, his sunglasses perched on his nose despite the fact we're indoors, and he's dressed in a suave suit. At least he's not drunk, or hung-over. Drunk Stark is worse than not-drunk Stark, although sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. "Don't worry, I'm here people, the party can start now." He receives a host of blank, unimpressed looks.

Pepper Potts clicks in behind her boyfriend / boss, a clipboard clutched to her chest and her hair nervously tucked behind her ears. She clips him on the back of his head, and he turns to her with a kicked puppy expression. She's completely unaffected of course. "Go and sit down Tony, and stop showing off. It's unbecoming, especially when you've made us late by refusing to get out of bed. I'm sorry everyone, on behalf of us both." Everyone acknowledges her good sense with a polite smile.

Stark mutters something about being fashionably late, but since he's _technically_ a genius he knows it's never a good idea to argue with his girlfriend, so he goes and sits down next to his so called 'Science Bro', and starts to write extensive notes and make adjustments to his partners crazy scribbles.

Pepper hurries over and sits down on the other side of me to Natasha. "I'm terribly sorry ladies, Tony was a bit of a handful today, he didn't go to bed until 6am because he was working out some formulae for the Einstein-Rosenburg bridge Jane Foster is working on for S.H.I.E.L.D. You know what that is right?"

I roll my eyes. "Please, SciTech won't stop salivating over the research and Operations are getting annoyed because they keep slipping in the puddles." Natasha snorts at my statement, and Pepper smiles politely. Ah well, S.H.I.E.L.D humour isn't meant for civilians.

"Well, I'm glad you understand," the CEO says, "because I have no idea what on earth it is. Tony said something about a magical rainbow bridge, but I think he was drunk at the time. I only took middle school science, and half the time it's like Tony's not even speaking English!"

Natasha looks over at Clint, who is gesticulating about some battle or another with some technical field agent jargon, while Steve listens intently and Thor looks confused at all the acronyms and lingo. "Tell me about it." Natasha sighs. "I can speak 104 different languages fluently and I still don't know what Clint goes on about half the time."

I wink at both of them and climb to my feet. My head pounds worryingly and my stomach cramps are back, but as they say, the show must go on. I just about manage not to fall over as I head to the top of the conference table in front of the big screen. I click my fingers and the lights dim, which succeeds in getting everyone's attention.

"Now that everyone is here," I say with a significant look at Stark, who isn't bothered in the slightest, "we can start. First of all, because this needs to be said but Fury would rather gouge out his good eye than admit it, we are very pleased with your progress as a team, you are starting to follow orders well whilst making tactical, on-field decisions that include the strengths and cover the weaknesses of _all_ of your team members. Steve, you are an exemplary leader and we're starting to add you as an example in the programme for team leading." The Captain blushes at the compliment, and blushes even harder when all of the Avengers nod in agreement. "Barton, Romanoff, perfect as always, just try and remember to tell the rest of the team before you do your secret-ninja-disappearing trick, oh, and Barton, hand in your paperwork for gods sake." Both of the assassins smirk slightly, as if to say 'no promises'. "Bruce, your medical expertise on this team is invaluable, and the Hulk is causing much less unnecessary damage." Bruce smiles and ducks his head. "Thor, you are a fine warrior, but try and remember it's not the best idea to shout out your intentions to the 'heinous villains' when the aim is surprise." Thor nods his head, although I don't think he appreciates being told what to do by me, who he sees as close to a civilian. I'd show him otherwise but I really don't have the time to start a fight with a god. "Stark, you are learning how to take orders but insulting Fury every ten seconds isn't doing you any favours, and neither is constantly turning up late. You hack S.H.I.E.L.D on your every whim, not realising how many Trojans have piggybacked through your systems and into ours." Stark looks mortally offended as I insult his hacking skills, but I'm not done yet. "Look, I get that you're trying your best to be a team player, which you've never done before, but your planet sized ego is pushing everyone away. You're getting better, but it needs to happen faster. Maybe you could start by listening to Pepper."

I hope for a second that I've knocked him speechless but that is, as always, a futile wish. "Don't insult my hacking like that, they aren't any Trojans in Jarvis to piggyback on into your crappy systems, and anyway, if it were me hacking you then you wouldn't know it was happening till months afterwards."

I sigh and look up at the ceiling. "Despite popular belief you are _not_ the world's best hacker Stark, and nor is Jarvis. We are a top secret para-military organisation, if we couldn't detect when some bored billionaire decides to hack our systems I doubt we'd still be around to be mad at you. Besides, the Nyan cat on ten hour repeat with your face on it ring any bells?"

Tony pouts. "That was one time."

Natasha rounds on him, her eyes blazing with green fire. "That was you?" she hisses. "That infernal noise went through all of our comms as well, you nearly got me killed because the Russian Mafia nearly realised I was wearing a wire! A couple of other agents were seriously injured because of your little joke. I'll have your head mounted on my bedroom wall for this." she states, her voice silky smooth and extremely deadly.

"Natasha, I don't think threatening Tony is very productive towards forming stronger team bonds." Steve puts in.

Barton's head snaps around to glare at the supersoldier. "Don't turn Natasha nearly dying because Tony felt like fucking around into a team building exercise. If she says she nearly died, it means she was a whisker away from death. If Stark endangered her, I'll hold him down while she cuts his head of with a blunt paperclip."

"Holding down the enemy is a cowardly act!" booms Thor. "Real warriors allow their enemy a weapon and offer a good fight before death!"

"Yeah, and my weapon would be my suit." Tony jumps to his feet, attempting to tower over Barton. "Which would kick your ass so hard you wouldn't be able to find it afterwards!"

Barton climbs leisurely to his feet, radiating intimidation as he stares Tony right in the eyes. "You just try it Tin Man, see where you end up."

Natasha snorts. "I'll console Pepper afterwards."

"The testosterone levels in here are overwhelming." mutters Bruce.

"Don't you start!" grumps Tony at his 'ScienceBro'. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"Hey, leave Bruce be!" commands Natasha.

By now all of the Avengers are on their feet, pointing fingers and yelling and threatening and posturing and generally ignoring both me and this meeting. Even Pepper is on her feet, simultaneously defending Tony and shouting at him to calm down. The noise escalates and escalates, and my head pounds dangerously with every shout and angry word. My temper starts to build with the pain that they are causing me, unknowingly or not, and they act as if I am not even present in the room. Children, they are all acting like children in a playground, not the seamless team I spend half my time presenting them to the public and the Council as.

'_Why do I put up with this?_' I ask myself, and that one question opens up the flood gates. _'Why? What's the point, I'm not getting anywhere with this. I could leave this meeting and they wouldn't even notice I was gone._ _This happens to me all the damn time, with them, with normal agents, with the Council and with Fury. It seems everyone worries about upsetting everyone but me. Well I've had it. I'm done. I don't care anymore_.' I suddenly realise, and my temper builds even further. I no longer bother with trying to stay calm, the deep breaths and happy thoughts obviously aren't working. Instead I let my temper go, completely relinquishing control. I. Just. Don't. Care.

Before I know it I've grabbed a knife and have slammed it deep into the conference table. "ENOUGH!" I scream, and the Avengers all freeze and go silent. Slowly, one by one they turn to look at me. I watch as their wide eyes travel from the shaking knife protruding on the table to me, panting hard and flushed with anger.

"I QUIT! I FUCKING QUIT! I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I WON'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! SCREW THIS FUCKING JOB, I QUIT!" Silence reigns for a second, shell-shocked faces all around me with gaping open mouths. I see Natasha recover herself and open her mouth to speak, but I don't give her the chance. "NO, DON'T TALK TO ME, IT'S YOUR GODDAMN PROBLEM NOW, BECAUSE I QUIT! S.H.I.E.L.D NO LONGER HAS A DEPUTY DIRECTOR, YOU CAN JUST FUCKING DEAL WITHOUT ME! I QUIT!" I scream for good measure, then turn on my heel and slam the door closed. Bloody crescents are carved into my palms from where my nails have dug into my palms, and my whole body is positively vibrating with rage. I storm away from the conference room, breathing heavily and resting my hand on the gun at my side.

A few agents watch me walk past in horror, mouths wide open in shock. They must have heard me through the conference room door, or maybe it's the fact I flick my knife into a camera as I pass, showering white hot glass all over the hallway. I hiss at the staring agents, who jump and scamper away at top speed, obviously going to go and start the rumour mill running. Fine, I don't care, I'll be out of here by the end of tomorrow anyway. The rumour mill can spin away, it'll have me as single-handedly taking down the Avengers by tomorrow morning.

Every single person I pass hurries out of my way, comical looks of terror on their faces that would've been funny if I wasn't so angry. Instead, they bring me a sick sort of pleasure; this is why S.H.I.E.L.D fears me. One young male agent doesn't get out of my way fast enough, and I motor past him, barging into his shoulder and knocking him into the floor. He lets out a yelp but when I turn on my heel and glare at him, his face quickly pales and he shuts up in record time.

I eventually reach my quarters after passing through about half of S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, with agents crowding the halls to watch me storm past. I slam the door on the crowd of agents, who seem to think I don't know that they're following me, with a resounding bang. Sliding down the inside of my door I close my eyes, the absolute fury sliding slightly under the surface until it's bubbling lava rather than an all out explosion.

I take a deep breath and run my hands through my hair, pulling out my ponytail and letting my hair fall around my shoulders. Knowing that in about an hours time the news will reach the highest level in S.H.I.E.L.D and I will have some unwelcome visitors, I decide to make the most of the time I have. Besides, I don't think I've had an hour to myself in weeks.

I smile slightly, and pull of my boots, carelessly dropping them in the hallway. I take great pleasure in stripping of the S.H.I.E.L.D issue catsuit as I sway towards my little bathroom, and I jump into the shower with a grin. The 15 minutes I spend in the shower are pure bliss, the hot water cascading down, massaging the shampoo and conditioner through my hair; it's thoroughly relaxing. Jumping out again, I feel a little more rational, and a lot more like a member of the human race instead of a government issue machine.

I grin as I settle down on the stool in front of my mirror, taking the time to slowly blow dry my hair and then curl it into soft curls. I let my hair rest loosely around my shoulders, and then apply minimal make up, foundation and eye liner and my favourite soft red lip stick, just for the enjoyment I find in the process of dressing up.

I pull jeans and a beautiful red top out from the back of my wardrobe, which is sadly dominated with S.H.I.E.L.D issue clothing and business suits. Yuck, horrid uncomfortable things. It is such a relief not to be wearing something skin tight, so I don't have to feel the eyes of men constantly trailing up and down my body. As a female spy, at least 60% of my expected job was seduction, which was why I quickly opted for leadership over field work. A deadly assassin I was, a seductress I was not.

I pad through into my kitchen with bare feet, the only thing ruining the façade of normality being the gun tucked into my waistband. I have a feeling I'll be using it to threaten off any visitors soon enough.

Never one for cooking I grab a ready meal lasagne and shove it in the microwave. As I wait for it to warm through I pour myself a glass of red wine, and sit down at the table. The blue light of my laptop flickers as I switch it on, entering a complex series of passcodes and flicking through secret files to access my own security system situated in the corridors around my room, in the canteen, in the entrance way, a few that track high level agents and the Avengers around and even one in Fury's office (it pays to be paranoid).

So, I have the pleasure of watching the entertainment that is Natasha Romanoff striding into Fury's office to angrily inform him that I've quit, and watching his mouth drop open in shock and then his eyes slowly widen with horror. Fabulous. He begins to shoot rapid fire questions at Natasha, rapidly marching back and forth and basically going into full scale panic mode. It's nice to see he knows S.H.I.E.L.D is going to fall apart without me.

"Godammit Hill, why are your vents screwed shut!" a frustrated voice shouts from my bedroom. I pause for a second, going for my gun, before recognising the voice. Ah, Barton. To be honest I'd been wondering when he'd show up. I grab my gun anyway, never hurts to be prepared to threaten people, and scoop up my glass of wine before going into my bedroom.

I see Barton's annoyed face poking through the vent grating and smile in spite of myself. Someone looks annoyed.

He looks at me and pouts. "A little help?"

"No, I don't think so. I like you right there." I pretend to shoot him with my gun and he grins widely.

"Loving the look." he smiles down at me when he notices I'm not in my usual ensemble. "I especially like the hair."

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "I think you just damaged your manly pride saying that. I'm pretty sure you manly men aren't supposed to notice things like that."

He rolls his eyes. "I live in extremely close quarters with the world's greatest seductress in life or death situations for the vast majority of my time, and you know I spent four and a half months on _that_ mission pretending to be a hairdresser. Plus, it would be rude to ignore such beauty."

I take a sip of wine to hide my smile. "What do you want Barton?"

"To find out if you're really leaving and see if I can persuade you not to."

I sigh. "Yes, I am leaving, and no, you can't stop me."

He sticks his bottom lip out, and threads his fingers through the vent. It must be pretty uncomfortable for him stuck up there, I'm surprised he hasn't left yet. I didn't know he cared. "Not even if I apologise for being an annoying little shit at the best of times and promise to at least try and do my paperwork?"

"Why the concern?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I'm the tyrant who makes you do paperwork and slaps you round the face." He rubs the bruise on his cheek ruefully. "I would've though you'd be rejoicing at me throwing a fit and leaving."

"Yeah, but I kinda like working for S.H.I.E.L.D, and you're a massive part of this organisation. Everyone knows you do all the boring crap that holds this place together, including chasing me around for paperwork. Besides, you know I enjoy the chase, and whose gonna save my ass when I'm on missions by myself? Huh? I'll be a corpse within the next nine months if you aren't around to fix everything for me."

I take another sip of my wine. "Yeah, but why are you here? You aren't one for admitting these things."

Clint smiles his famous and much employed shit-eating smile. "Because Romanoff is blaming me and she says I have to apologise because, and I quote, 'if you drive away the sanest person in the entire goddamn organisation by being a fucking moron I will personally end you', unquote. And Tasha is one scary woman, so I apologise for all of my moronic tendencies and promise not to make you chase me around for paperwork for more than a week in future."

"That's very kind Agent Barton-"

He cuts me off. "Please, when I'm in your bedroom, call me Clint." He smiles a dirty little smile, and I almost drop my wine glass in surprise and not a little horror.

"Ew! God's above Barton that was straight up disgusting." I say with a shudder before I can compose myself. He smiles even wider and blows me a kiss through the vent.

"Anyway, _Clint_," I say, and he wriggles his eyebrows. I roll my eyes sardonically and continue. "It's kind of you to apologise for being a first class pain in my neck, but, hard as it may be to believe, you aren't the reason I…well, frankly I lost it."

He snorts. "I told Natasha it was egocentric to assume this was all my fault. I'm not Stark, I don't think everything revolves around me. Besides, even _I'm_ not enough all by myself to make _you_ lose it that badly. Anyway, I digress. I'm sorry for contributing to whatever has been stressing you out, oh, and I'm sorry for sitting in your vent like an oversized dust mite."

I chuckle slightly. "Thank you Bar-Clint. An apology is always nice. Let's just hope a few certain other people have the same plan, shall we? Oh, and on the topic of you on solo missions, if you didn't antagonise all of your targets so much, I'm sure you wouldn't get into such hot water. Then I wouldn't have to save your ass all the time."

He tilts his head to the side. "Oh, but annoying people is half the fun."

I can't help but huff with laughter at his familiar antics. He, despite our differences, is one of the few people in this organisation I would trust with my life. Hell, I might even miss him. Now that is a weird thought. "This heart to heart has been very nice, but I think my dinner is burning and I'm going to have some visitors that are a lot more unwelcome than you in a minute. I think you had better leave."

"It has been an honour working with you, Agent Maria Hill. I'll miss you if you quit. Oh, and try not to shoot anyone important with that gun, I'd hate to see you on my cross off list."

I grin into my now empty wine glass. "Get out of here Barton, or you won't have to worry about anyone else having a bullet in them." I smile all the way through my threat, looking him in the eyes despite the fact he's lying above me in my air vent.

He laughs, the sound echoing around him, warping the sound. "Always the same Agent Hill." His laughter still echoes even after he has long disappeared back down the vent.

What a loveable moron.

I pull my lasagne out of the microwave and stand leaning against the counter, too hungry to wait for it to cool. I grab a spoon and scarf it down while the cheese is still bubbling with the heat, and it burns my throat but since I haven't eaten much at all today I really don't care. Besides, a sip of wine sorts it out.

Just in case you're worrying, I have a very high alcohol tolerance, I won't get roaring drunk anytime soon. Besides, I meet need a little liquid courage to deal with the wrath of Fury when he turns up.

I take a look at the camera in Fury's office and nearly drop my lasagne from shock. I manage to juggle it without dropping it, and dump it on the work surface, boiling hot mince landing on my hand. I wince and suck it off, eyes trained on the camera. The hell?

I sit down heavily at my kitchen table, pulling the laptop towards me and refreshing the screen, to check it's not broken. Well, apparently it's not broken, although my jaw might be after it hit the floor.

Fury is holding a meeting with the Avengers and like half of S.H.I.E.L.D's senior staff. And he looks…scared.

"So basically Captain Hook, what your saying is, if Hill leaves, S.H.I.E.L.D is going down, and the rest of the world not soon after." Stark asks, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it stylishly.

"Yep." Fury grunts, not even bothering to glare at Stark for yet another poor quality pirate joke. Wow, he is really stressed.

"Damn, I like the world. It makes me rich and famous." Stark receives a host of glares from all around the office, which he ignores with admirable pig-headedness.

"With all due respect sir, I don't understand how S.H.I.E.L.D could let one person hold so much power over the entire organisation. What if Agent Hill ever turned?" Steve asks, stood with his hands behind his back, a soldier to the core. I'd be offended if it wasn't such a sensible question.

"Hill wouldn't turn." says a shadow in the corner. I can only tell its Natasha because I recognise her voice, I can't even make out her form she's concealed so well. Damn she's good at her job. "She simply wouldn't. I would know, I'm an expert on reading people. She's devoted her life to this hell hole, she's almost given her life on numerous occasions too."

"But I don't understand how one person, even the Deputy Director, quitting could spell the end for S.H.I.E.L.D, a massive multi-national semi-evil corporation that employs thousands of the world's deadliest men and women and basically saves the world twice a day." Bruce looks really puzzled, and he's actually put down his science notes for a second. Good god this must be serious. And besides, we save the world three times a day, not twice. Honestly, some people.

"Because," Fury almost growls, never one to like his judgement or rare shows of faith in other people being questioned, "Hill handles everything in this organisation. Every mission you lot get sent on? Hill has already taken the information from Intelligence and Logistics, cross referenced it, determined a threat level, worked out who to assign it to and alerted their handler. Then she remotely overseas most of the high priority or risk missions, like yours, personally saves everyone's asses on a regular basis, alerts PR to what they need to cover up and keep out of the media and to what they should promote, then she deals with all of the after mission paperwork, collecting, sorting and filing it all. She also runs negotiations with terrorist groups and governments alike, just this morning Hill prevented World War III, and she deals with the Council when they want to have the lot of you shipped off to Medical Research. And she does all of that for nearly every mission we run. So, if she really does decide to leave, you lot had better have picked out a nice gravestone."

Wow, okay. Fury seems to appreciate me a lot more than I thought. It's kind of weird to see him handing out any praise to anyone, let alone little old me.

"Mine's black, with gold writing and a gold arrow on it. It says 'Clint Barton, archer extraordinaire. Hawkeye:' and then my kill count, which I won't list as Tasha will totally contest it." pipes up a voice seemingly from nowhere. Everyone turns from side to side, searching for the source of the comment, except for Natasha, Fury and Coulson, who all sigh and roll their eyes.

"Barton get the hell out of my vents, and get your ass down here. I called this meeting ten minutes ago, and even Stark showed up! You know how serious this is, where the hell have you been?" Fury yells, back to his old, bad-tempered self in an instant.

Barton hoists himself out of the vent and drops soundlessly to the floor, looking uncharacteristically serious. "I was doing a little recon on the situation."

"And?" queries Coulson.

"We're screwed." Barton admits.

"Dammit." hisses Fury.

"Avez-vous des excuses?" Natasha asks pointedly, the threat clear in her tone.

"Oui!" Barton sighs exasperatedly. I have to admit, I'm quite enjoying this, it's like a S.H.I.E.L.D issue soap opera. "I apologised for being a first class a-hole and I even promised to try and do paperwork! I went as far as to compliment her hairstyle, which was seriously damaging to my inflated male ego."

"Agent Barton, we need details."

"Yeah, sure," he grins, "But first…" Barton turns to look right at where my camera is stationed, and grins. "Sorry about this Hill, but fun time is over, and the plan won't work if you're in on it. This is Clint Barton, signing away his life to a vengeful Deputy Director. Peace!" and then he reaches up and jams an arrow through my camera. The screen goes blank and the last decent picture I have is of Barton's looming face, the Avengers all looking at him like he's insane and Coulson and Romanoff rolling their eyes at the bird. He is such a drama queen, he couldn't just cut the camera wire, and he had to stick an arrow through my lovely tech. I paid FitzSimmons two favours for those little cameras, _damn_ Barton and his Hawk vision and his legendary observational skills and _damn_ him to hell. I was enjoying that.

Then I realise: everything Barton knows, Romanoff knows too. I must remember to thank Natasha for not cutting the feed any earlier, because that whole episode is going on my personal hard drive so I can watch it in the future and laugh hysterically, and possibly rub my hands together in maniacal glee.

I slowly finish off my lasagne, deep in thought, and silently curse the fact that I only put one camera in the Director's office when I was supposed to be sweeping it for bugs. Really, that was just poor planning

Anyway, there was just one last piece of paperwork I was obliged to fill out for this place before I was free to go, well free-but-under-covert-surveillance-from-S.H.I.E.L.D because no-one here trusts anyone for shit, and for good reason, but still, there'd be no more paperwork except for this. My resignation.

_Director Fury,_

_This is a letter of resignation tended due to me being unable to cope with the stress I am under in my job for any longer. I apologise for any issues this may cause to you or to S.H.I.E.L.D as a whole but this is my final decision._

_Regards,_

_Agent Maria Hill, ex- Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D_

I smile, part in triumph but also with sadness. S.H.I.E.L.D really is my life, I eat, sleep and breathe espionage. No wonder I'm always so stressed. I print myself a copy, and then hesitate, before deciding against sending the printer in Fury's office a copy. As fun as it is to imagine Fury's face if I was cheeky enough to do that, it would change his mood from as close to remorseful as a spymaster ever gets to extremely pissed off, and I do _not_ want to deal with that right now.

A sharp knock sounds at my door, one that I recognise immediately. Ah, speak of the devil and he shall appear.

I stand up slowly, pulling myself together with my mask on and my armour in place, tucking my gun into the back of my jeans and grabbing a few other, less lethal weapons as well as the resignation letter. This was going to be bad.

I pad bare foot over to my front door, and take a deep breath. In…and out. Then, I wrench the door open.

"Director Fury." I say with a nod. Examining the man in front of me I wince internally. I see this look often enough, working along side the Director everyday, this is the look which says that if he could, Fury would let you _burn_. It doesn't matter if you've blown up a S.H.I.E.L.D base, are a psychopathic mass murderer, a god with daddy issues from another Realm or even if you've just stolen his eye patch, the look is the same. And right now, it's burning into my soul.

"Maria." he says grimly. I quirk an eyebrow. Maria? Since when were we on first name terms? Apart from that I stay dangerously professional, not a single muscle in my body is relaxed.

"Why are you here Director." I rap out in my most professionally cold voice, "I've made my position quite clear, and you were never one for flogging a dead horse."

"What do you think you're doing Hill?" he says bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.

I look at him with confusion evident on my face. "Excuse me?" I ask. Internally, I'm running a seriously angry monologue. _'Who the hell does he think he is to me to talk to me like that, he's treating me like a criminal or worse, like an agent he's reprimanding. I am not one of his god damn agents here to do what he says, I was made the Deputy Director because I stand up to him and his stupid, pig headed ways, and now I'm standing up for myself he looks down on me? Oh no he did not…'_

"If you were upset, you've made your point." Fury steps through the doorway and leans on the door, leaving me unable to angrily slam it in his face. Regrettably, he's just that good. "We can work on whatever the problem is, just stop this now. You've got half of S.H.I.E.L.D crying for their mothers."

"Well excuse me for exercising my right to choose my own job, and my own life." I say in my most deceptively calm tone. I take a step forward so that I am invading Fury's personal space, although unlike most people, he doesn't even flinch when a deadly ex-assassin gets close enough to bite out his other eye. "I have left my position within this organisation which means you no longer hold any authority over me. Now here is my resignation," I shove the now crumpled letter at his chest and watch his good eye widen with some unknown emotion, "and please get the hell out of my rooms."

"No." snaps Fury, "I have more to say."

"Well I don't want to listen to it. Goodbye."

"Maria-" he starts before I cut him off.

"I will use force Fury." I growl, and he frowns, looking puzzled. But, he still doesn't move, he just stands there, looking at me with his one good eye slightly narrowed.

I make a noise half between a sigh and a growl. "Fine." I grab my lip stick taser, and zap him with it, with just enough charge to make him jolt and rock unsteadily on his feet. I put both my hands on his shoulders and shove bodily him out of the door, watching him stumble backwards and into the hallway.

"Goodnight Director." I snap, and bang the door closed in his face.

I purse my lips and heave out a long sigh as I close my eyes and knock my head back against the door with a clunk. That actually went better than I expected. I didn't _even_ have to cause him any bodily harm. I must remember to thank FitzSimmons for that lipstick taser before I leave, those two kids are so smart.

"You know, in most circles it's considered impolite to tase people. You should work on that." an unexpected but not unknown voice calls out from somewhere in my quarters.

"Oh for the love of god…" I mutter, resisting the temptation to run a hand through my hair because it would totally kill my hairstyle. This man, this goddamn ninja of epic proportions. And if he's on my case…I'm so screwed. "Are you Batman or something?"

"Please." the voice snips as I pad back towards my kitchen, "We both know I'm far better than Batman ever was."

"True enough." I mutter as I round the doorway to my kitchen. "Agent Phil Coulson."

The man in question looks up from where he's sat at my kitchen table, and smiles his signature smile. His tie is red (like the blood of his enemies) and his suit is black as pitch, not a single piece of lint or a crease denting its immaculate surface.

"Agent Maria Hill." he responds in kind.

I survey him for a second, and recognise that he's doing the same to me with those cool grey eyes of his. I sigh in something very similar to defeat when I see the determination in his gaze, resigning myself to what is most likely going to be my fate. Pretending not to be bothered in the slightest I sashay over to the counter and scoop the remains of my lasagne into the bin. "Do I even want to know how you got in here Phil?"

He shakes his head, then quirks an eyebrow, obviously making a decision. "That's a lot of catsuits in one wardrobe Maria."

I snort. "The hell is this, Narnia?"

Phil grins. "That would make you Mr Tumnus."

"The White Witch is much more fitting, I assure you that most of S.H.I.E.L.D would agree. Drink?" I ask, pouring myself another glass of red wine. I knew I wasn't going to get out of this particular agent by tasering him and shoving him out of the door, that's for sure.

"I'll have what you're having."

I shrug and pour him a glass of wine, before going to sit down across the table from him. "So they're sending in the big guns huh?" I ask sardonically.

"Yep." he states without a hint of anything but good humour. "So, do you want to talk?"

"Which S.H.I.E.L.D agent in the history of anywhere ever wants to _talk_?"

"But you're going to." Unfortunately it's a statement, not a question.

"Sure as hell looks like it, doesn't it?" I sigh, resigned.

Phil leans forward, lacing his hands together, concern etched on his face. "What's up Maria?" he asks softly.

"The ceiling." I reply petulantly, stealing one of Barton's favourite lines.

"Maria!" Phil admonishes. Then he pauses. "Wow, something is wrong with you. You aren't the childish type."

I take a long sip of my wine. "Ugh, tell me about it."

I watch him tick 'she's being informal too' off his mental list. "I'll swear too if you want."

He starts. "What?"

"For you're mental list of 'what's wrong with Maria'. I can see you compiling it from here."

Coulson snorts. "I think you already managed the swearing quite competently."

I think back to when I lost my temper in the conference room and fight to conceal a blush. Oops, looks like Thor and Steve learned some new modern, Midguardian swear words today.

Phil shoots me a knowing look. I wave a hand at him dismissively. "So what, I'm acting a little out of character. It doesn't change the fact that I quit this stupid job."

Phil doesn't respond, instead he stands up and grabs a weird blue stick out of his jacket pocket and scans me over, a strange blue light running over my features. Then the light starts to tingle slightly, which makes me cringe at the strange sensation. "Hey, cut that out!"

"Sorry." says Phil as he puts the device away, not looking very sorry at all. "Just checking that you're you. Because to me this whole situation is pretty surreal, and when someone starts acting out of character in our line of work, well…"

"Please," I scoff, "No villain is going to replace little old me with a robot or a clone or some other impersonator. Fury, yes, the Avengers, definitely, you, go for it, but no-one sees me as a threat."

Phil smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Yes but that's why we always beat the villains. They're just not smart enough to realise what, or rather _who_, holds this place together."

I fan myself, not having to pretend to be flattered at the praise. "Oh là là, a girl might faint with all the praise I've been receiving today." Phil says nothing, just drinks his wine and looks at me with an unreadable expression. "Alright, why are you here Phil?" So sue me, I'm not in a patient mood today.

"To inform you of something." He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, cool as a freaking cucumber.

"Well then?" I ask impatiently after a brief pause. Gods, I _am_ in a bad mood today, I never snap at Phil. I mean, he's _Phil_!

"If you quit your job, then I'll be forced to quit mine." His face is dead and his eyes are hard, otherwise I would seriously think he was joking.

I gasp. "But you love your job."

"Yep." he says, straight faced, with no hint of a bluff on his features.

"You _died_ for your job."

"Yep."

"And you're going to leave it to make a point to me?" I asked incredulously.

"Yep." He calmly sips his wine.

I throw my hands up in the air and sigh. "And this is why you're the big guns. If the fear doesn't get you, the guilt will. Sorry Phil, but I'm serious when I say I can't take this job anymore, I'll go psycho, Loki style." Phil winces. "Oh gods, sorry, that was insensitive, but I suppose its fitting. I'll go down and I'll take you with me."

Coulson eyes me for a long moment, before coming to some kind of decision. "I'm going to tell you a story."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm going to tell you a story." he repeats calmly.

"O-okay." I reply, quirking an eyebrow.

"It was about a year after Barton became one of my agents-" he starts before I cut him off.

"Wow wow wow, hold on a minute, I don't want to know some personal story about Barton, that's a class one betrayal of trust right there." I wave my hands around in a stopping motion. "I avoid any and all personal stories about the people I know and only mildly despise."

"It's fine, I already cleared telling you with Clint." he reassures me.

"You really do think of everything."

"It's my job. So anyway, a long time ago, in a city far, far away…" he takes a sip of his wine giving me ample opportunity to mutter 'nerd', which I do. "Anyway, so you know about a year after Barton joined S.H.I.E.L.D, and one day he suddenly went AWOL, ripping out his tracker and leaving behind his beloved bow and everything?"

I smile with the memory. "Yeah, it was the first truly panic worthy inner-S.H.I.E.L.D crisis I had to deal with after I got promoted to the Agent Management Board as well as running Missions."

Coulson grins. "I was so proud of you. Anyway, I put my own, special Agent Coulson trackers in all my agents, because when they go on the run or get captured, which they invariably do, the first thing that goes is the S.H.I.E.L.D issue tracker, so when Clint went on the run I knew when he was. San Francisco. I tracked him down-"

"Yeah," I cut in, "you just disappeared off the face of planet Earth as well, talk about giving me a heart attack."

He chuckles. "Yeah well, it's my duty as a handler. So, where were we. Ah yes, I tracked him down to a crappy motel in the downtown area, only to find my tracker, covered in blood, and a note, written in his scrappy, scrawly handwriting. It read:

_Dear Coulson (because you're the only one who'll follow me),_

_You don't need to look for me, I'm fine, or rather, I will be. You helped me realise the error in what I've done, so I've gone to fix it. I'm sorry for the arrow I put through your thigh when we first met, I'm sorry for the fight I put up when in reality you rescued me from my former life, and I'm sorry for all the extra paperwork this will make you fill out on my behalf. I just wanted to say, you were the first person ever who made me a promise, and kept it. I won't be a problem for you anymore._

_Signed,_

_Clint Barton_."

"Oh god," I whisper, "He left…"

"A suicide note." finishes Phil, sounding slightly chocked up. "Yeah, he did."

"Oh god." I repeat brokenly, shakily reaching for my glass of wine. "Oh Barton." I whisper.

"It was a long, long time ago. I expect you to treat him no differently than you would've before." Phil says sternly. "So, moving on. Being the amazing handler that I am, I knew where he would go, if he was going to…kill himself."

"The Golden Gate Bridge." I mutter. Phil starts in surprise and looks at me in mild shock. "What? I pay attention. Whenever he's upset he goes to high places. And the highest place in 'cisco is the bridge."

"You're good." Phil mutters, as if he's surprised. I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you were agent good, not people good." he explains. Good excuse, if I thought he was insulting my competence he might end up with a shattered wine glass to the neck the way my day was going.

"I'm a woman, I multitask; I'm perfectly good at being both simultaneously. Now talk, I want to hear the rest of the story."

"Of course, oh demanding one." he teases, before returning to seriousness. "So I found him, sat morosely on the very edge of the bridge, looking down at the water with his 'deep in thought' face on. So, without further ado, I jumped the barrier, sat down next to him and handcuffed us together."

"You handcuffed yourself to a suicidal assassin?" I yelp incredulously. Yep, I knew it, Phil is insane.

"Hey, I'm still here aren't I? My judgement is sound. So anyway, Clint just looked at me, looked at the handcuffs and burst out laughing. He didn't stop for around ten minutes, we just sat on the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge, him laughing and me sat there watching him. When he calmed down he just looked at me and said 'Really? Phil Coulson you fucking smug bastard, what makes you think I won't take you with me?' So I looked him in the eyes, just like I'm doing to you right now, and said 'Because I know you. You care more about others than you do about yourself. And this is selfish, Clinton Francis Barton, and you know it."

"Maybe I want to be selfish for once." I mutter, knowing all to well what Phil is telling me with his little 'story'.

Phil shrugs. "And that's where the story splits. Even though what Clint did was a matter of circumstance, he still did and does feel guilty for it. He thinks he was selfish, silly bugger, so he was easy to guilt trip out of jumping. Now you, however, are the opposite. You've always been too selfless, putting pretty much everyone over yourself, especially in this damn job, and you've had it, haven't you? You cracked, blew up, exploded, imploded, went loopy, round the corner and up the bend, read everyone the riot act. You gonna tell me why?"

"It's kind of rude that you're comparing me leaving my job to Barton going bridge jumping." Phil fixes me with the look and I sigh, crumpling easily under the designated 'Phil glare' reserved for me. Damn man has a specific glare for everyone that makes them crumble, even Fury. I briefly give Phil a run down of my absolutely appalling day, his eyebrows rising further and further with each point I make. After I finish with the argument at the Avengers meeting he whistles in appreciation. "Ouch." he states. I nod once. He looks deep in thought for a moment, and I recognise his plotting face. Wonderful, another scheme to deflect.

"So what you're saying is, the stress got to you because you had a really bad day?"

I sigh, twirling one of my curls around my finger. "I don't know Phil. I've had too much work for a while, I've been getting up earlier and earlier and going to bed later and later. Last night I got an hour and a half of sleep. The night before I got two and a quarter, and for three consecutive nights before that I didn't have time to go to sleep at all. The last time I had a full nights sleep was six months ago when I assigned myself to the rescue squad for the Memphis mission and was sedated for 8 hours because I got shot. And do you know when I woke up, I was really mad because all I could think about was how much I could've got done in those 8 hours! It's ridiculous! I'm ridiculous. And I can't do this anymore, okay? I can't deal with the mountains of paperwork and the moaning agents, the hateful glares that I get when I walk through the corridors because I didn't have the time to listen to a million and one complaints and problems, I can't deal with the nuclear crises at 3 in the morning and every single Council meeting simply because Fury can't be bothered, I can't deal with a screaming argument just because the Avengers are having an off day. I can't have an off day, S.H.I.E.L.D can't have that, now can they? Anyone else can have an off day, you get to fly off on your plane with Ward and Mei when it all gets too much, Fury hands off his duties to me to go and visit his nieces, the Avengers go AWOL whenever they damn well please, but I haven't had a day off in six years. Six whole freaking years of none stop working, and people are surprised when I lost my temper! Frankly I'm surprised I haven't gone on a homicidal rampage!" I clap both hands over my mouth, shocked by my out of character emotional flooding. I don't do emotions, people say Romanoff is an open book compared to me. And usually, they're right.

I watch Phil carefully, torn by horror at my outburst and some kind of bizarre hope that he will provide some miraculous solution. Even after working for S.H.I.E.L.D for most of my adult life, I can still believe in miracles, especially where Phil Coulson is concerned. The man actually died and came back to life, which qualifies as a miracle by itself. I wouldn't put another one past him.

Phil, for his part, is looking studiously into the middle distance above my shoulder, his eyebrows scrunched together and his mouth twitched into a frown, obviously thinking hard. "So…" he says after a long pause, "You're problem is not the job, but the quantity of the job."

"I'm drowning in paperwork and meetings." I say. It was supposed to be funny, but it came out like a confession.

"Right. so, the question remains, do you really want to quit?"

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know!" I throw my hands in the air in exasperation and bury my face in my hands.

Phil leans on his hands, fixing me with his sternest gaze. "It seems to me that you like, or rather occasionally enjoy your job as Deputy Director, but you've just got too much work for one person, hmm? If we try to fix some of your issues together, what would you say to giving this organisation another chance?" Phil smiles encouragingly, his eyes twinkling.

I sigh exasperatedly. This man just doesn't give in, does he? "Why? Why should I bother? I might very occasionally enjoy my job, but that's on the rare occasion I do something worthwhile, like save Barton from a solo mission when he's too busy being angsty, or when I beat Stark in an argument, or you bring me a coffee when I don't have the time to get one myself, little things like that."

He huffs. "Little things like saving the world?"

I can't help but smirk and raise an eyebrow. "You say that like I actually manage it single handedly. I'm telling you, if some supervillain burst in here right now, my little handgun isn't going to do much. I'd have to resort to using the 'mom' voice as it has been so lovingly dubbed and I'd treat them to a whole hands on hips, cold emotionless face lecture on the morals of the world that would have them on their knees with their ears bleeding within minutes."

Phil grins, chuckling a little and smiling mischievously. "See? Saving the world one terrifying lecture at a time. I tell the Avengers *_cough_* Stark *_cough_* that every victory is a team effort all the time, and we both know that it isn't soldiers on the battlefield who win a war. Besides, being out on the plane has given me a taste for fieldwork again, would you like to join me?"

"On your monster of a plane? Thanks, but no thanks. Being in close quarters with Agent Ward will lead to me seriously injuring him, probably in less than a week. I cannot put up with that kind of macho bullshit."

"No, of course not on the plane." Phil raises his eyes to the ceiling, "Mei would just go into robot mode full time, FitzSimmons would salivate over your clearance level, Sky wouldn't understand what the fuss was about and Ward would most likely go out of his way to annoy you. Anyway, I'd have to give up my office for you, and I like my office. No, I'm talking you and me, just like in the beginning before we both got shoved on the management track."

"Just like old times?" I say with all of the considerable sarcasm I have at my command.

"Just like old times." Phil confirms. "You and me out in the field, against the world, just once every couple of months away from the office, shooting targets, blowing stuff up and giving Strike Team Delta a run for their money."

I can't help but smile at him indulgently. "You always were overdramatic."

He snorts. "Says you, Miss 'I'm Maria god damn Hill'." Phil gracefully jumps to his feet and snags my wine bottle off the side, before pouring us both a good measure of the intoxicating red liquid. I give him a look that tells him exactly how far he's pushing it but after so many years I think my glares are losing their effect on him, because he doesn't even glance up. Damn. I'm going to have to work on that.

He raises his glass in a toast. "To Maria Hill, the Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D, finally getting the breaks that she deserves."

I sigh dramatically, but give in. If I have to admit defeat, I will do it gracefully. "To flipping Phil Coulson, the man who always gets what he wants in the end." Well, semi-gracefully at least.

We clink glasses and polish off our drinks.

I suddenly realise the magnitude of the rampage I just went on. "This is going to be so embarrassing." I groan.

Phil pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. "You'll be fine, Maria."

"No but Phil, I lost my temper with the Avengers, I _hissed_ at agents in the hallway and I tasered _Fury_! If I don't wind up dead or fired I'm never going to live this down! No-one is going to show me any respect anymore, I acted like some junior agent suffering with PTSD!" Years and years of training and stressful situations are all that's stopping me from hyperventilating right now.

"Maria! Chill out, take deep breaths and relax. Now listen to me. You. Will. Be. Fine. If anything, everyone will respect you more because now they know what'll happen to them if they ever make you lose your temper, and Fury needs you too much to kill you off. We wouldn't have gone through all this hoo-ha if you were that replaceable. And besides, everyone forgave me when they thought I was _dead_, so I'm sure they'll forgive you for only losing your temper."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, I'm back in business mode. "Give me my tablet Phil."

He smirks, knowing full well that he's won, and pulls my tablet out from somewhere in the depths of his suit, not even bothering to ask how I knew he had it on him. I love my tablet. I especially love the fact that it isn't a StarkPad, and because it's better Tony is forever trying to get his hands on it. I begin to type rapidly, my hands flying over the keyboard as little more than a blur.

Phil only holds his peace for a few seconds. "What are you doing?" he asks, attempting to peer over the raised screen in font of him.

"Making myself a list of how I'm going to fix everything tomorrow whilst I still technically don't work here." I say without looking up from my screen.

"You gonna tell me your plan then?" Phil asks. "I could help out you know."

"All right, okay, just let me finish it off…okay, so roughly this is the plan for tomorrow. 1. Apologise to Phil for snapping at him." I look up and smile sheepishly at my partner. "Sorry Phil."

"Apology accepted." He smiles warmly at me, his eyes twinkling in the most familiar way.

My face turns business like again and I stare back down at my list. "2. Go to Stark tower and apologise to the Avengers, especially Steve because he doesn't like it when people swear, and Pepper because she's just a civilian and I probably scared the shit out of her, blowing up with no warning like that. 3. Deflect any and all concerned looks from Natasha and snarky comments from Stark. 4. Actually apologise to…" I shiver reluctantly, but manage to spit out "…Barton, for…slapping him and yelling at him when it was _mostly_ uncalled for. Then yell at him and tase him for being a dramatic asshole and cutting my feed to the Director's office. Now I'm not going to get away with having cameras in there anymore, the bastard. Always ruining my damnable plans." Phil gives me a stern look and I drop off the I-hate-Clint-Barton train of thought. "Anyway. 5. Go down to Training Room C and destroy a couple of training dummies, I haven't practiced in far too long and it'll help me take out any remaining stress and anger, especially after just dealing with the Avengers. 6. Wait till 9 o' clock when most of the Internal Security Operatives are in work and threaten them with paperwork and the prejudiced with-holding of their coffee supplies if any embarrassing videos of me losing my temper start to make their way around S.H.I.E.L.D. And finally 7. March to the Director's office, hunt down my resignation letter, tear it into tiny little pieces, burn the pieces and put the ashes into Fury's coffee because I'm a vindictive little bitch like that. Then I'll wait till he shows up and inform him that I am _taking_ my job back and that there _will_ be some changes to my schedule."

Phil blinks twice. I hope it's in awe. It had better be in awe. My plans are fabulous. "Oh, okay. Are you sure demanding things from Fury is the best idea? We know he doesn't like demands."

I snort good-naturedly. "It's my job to argue with him. Literally, it says that in my contract, that 'the Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D must be ready and willing at all times to state contrary opinions to those of the Director in order to provide contrasting views', and since me yelling at him will most likely contrast with his view that no-one is allowed to yell at him and live, I'll be doing my job, hence I'll have my job back."

Phil stares at me in dead silence for a few seconds. Then he whistles. "No wonder you win every argument."

I grin vampirically. "That I do. Now get out of my rooms Coulson, and at least do me the courtesy of pretending you don't have a secret entrance through my wardrobe from your quarters to mine."

Phil only laughs as he hauls himself to his feet, looking over his shoulder as he leaves (through the front door) and says "Don't forget to assign us two some good missions for our trips down to the field!"

"Oh good god the enemy aren't going to know what hit them." I laugh. "I look forward to it. Once every three months should be good, right?"

Phil reaches the door to my quarters and pulls the door open. He spins around and smiles crazily even as he strolls out backwards into the corridor. "It's nice to have you back Maria!"

"Don't tell anyone Phil, I want to leave everyone in suspense and not a little terror. Now shoo, I have evil, evil plots to devise in order to terrorise S.H.I.E.L.D agents and the Avengers as a whole. I might even have time to get started on the X-men. Wow, free time, that's something I've not had in a hell of a while."

"It's nice to see you being happy again!" he calls.

"What?" I yell back, pretending to be offended, "How dare you! I'm never happy, I'm only ever marginally less pissed off!"

I hear Phil chuckle. "Goodnight Maria." He waves as he closes my front door.

"Night Phil." I call back.

That night, I went to bed feeling very satisfied with myself. It looks like even though I lost my temper, explosion style, tomorrow is going to bring a lot of improvements to my hectic schedule. If I can fix the gigantic mess I've made, things will surely start to look up. I'm a dangerous ex-assassin armed with paperwork, a taser, a gun and a plan, I'm a determined woman on a mission and no-one is going to stand in my way.

Needless to say, by the end of the next day, I had my job back.

_**Thank you for reading and please, please review for me!**_

_**Wow, this was 27 word pages long, that was kind of longer than I was expecting. Oh well.**_

_**Au revoir mes petits amis!**_

_**Please review!**_


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